


Führe Mich, Halte Mich

by Utu



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Murder Husbands, idk what else to say about this lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-19 03:37:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22004587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Utu/pseuds/Utu
Summary: Because taste was everything to Hannibal. I wanted to taste him, I wanted to taste like him, I wished that we could swap tongues, so I would know, even if for a fleeting moment, what it was like to be Doctor Hannibal Lecter.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	Führe Mich, Halte Mich

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatwasamazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatwasamazing/gifts).



> A (late) Christmas present for my lovely friend. <3 Inspired by Führe Mich by Rammstein. The title means simply "Lead me, hold me".  
> I hope y'all enjoy this.

Through the thick haze of my lingering nightmare, I realized that it was too cold. Something was wrong and I knew it, even though I couldn’t yet quite grasp it. I was yanked back into reality by a loudly howling wind, which bit my skin and made my muscles shiver. The ground beneath me was wet, and as I opened my eyes, I could see the vast night sky above me. I sat up slowly, my head spinning, and shame burned my cheeks as I realized I was naked.

I could see the lights of my house floating in the thick mist, and then I heard it. My name. Thrown into the heavy night with shrouded neediness. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, as my name echoed in the darkness, pulling me, demanding me to get up, and return to him. Of course, I recognized Hannibal’s voice, because I would recognize it anywhere, anytime. It was an anchor that kept my mind from going into overdrive, or worse yet, from falling back into the nightmare. I knew there was no reason for panic, or worry because  _ he _ was there with me.

I struggled to get to my feet on the slippery grass, and even though Hannibal had seen me naked multiple times, I just couldn’t shake the shame, or the anxiety — after all, wandering around in the darkness unclothed after a nightmare was far different than sex. My feet were numb as I started towards my house, my heart tearing through my chest, my eyes stinging from the cold sweat glistening on my skin as large, salty pearls. My breath evaporated, swirling towards the night sky to dissipate long before it could reach the stars flickering above, and my muscles shivered and shivered, fighting to keep me warm.

_ Will. _

There it was again. A beacon in the night. I followed it like a bat might follow the sound of its own echolocation. My self-control was nonexistent, so I yelled a pathetic, “Hannibal!” into the night, and I wanted to say more, but my tongue and throat refused to obey me. So I stayed silent, hoping he had heard me. But then again, he was Hannibal Lecter, so naturally, he was able to locate me easily because my weak voice was enough for him. Suddenly he was there; his feverishly hot hands on my shoulders, his eyes like two ponds, just deep enough that I knew I would drown in them if I wouldn’t stop staring. But I wanted to drown, I wanted my lungs to fill with the murky waters, I wanted my heart to stop beating while I was cradled by him. His hands were on my cheeks, on my forehead, caring, worried, confused — a mix of emotions that almost slipped my grasp, but his slightly furrowed brow caught my eye, and I knew he worried about me. Just like I so often worried about him.

“How are you feeling, Will?” It was merely a whisper, or so it sounded like, and I blinked, baffled — what was I supposed to say? How was I feeling? I couldn’t say. I was cold, that’s all I knew, and I hoped I could convey it to him somehow, but my tongue wasn’t obeying me; it was just a piece of dead meat stuck to the roof of my mouth. So I shrugged my trembling shoulders.

“Will,” Hannibal said, almost like he was chiding me, his sharp voice piercing through the haze, as he led me towards my house, his fingers interlocked with mine. The prickling grass under my feet turned into the rough wood of my porch, and I flinched, fearing I might get splinters from it. It was weird that I thought of it at that moment because I’d never feared it before. The light pouring out from the open front door made my eyes ache, and I blinked and blinked, trying to get rid of the stinging in my eyes. A cold, wet nose poked my hand, so I ran my fingers mindlessly through the rough fur belonging to one of my dogs — which one, I couldn’t say. I realized I had stopped when Hannibal tugged my arm gently, and said, “Will. Let’s get you inside.”

I loved the way he pronounced my name — it was flirting in its purest and simplest of forms because even when we’re stripped down to our core, we still have our names. The last thing to resonate when we die is our name. He knew I didn’t need much; just him saying my name like that, often with the same inflection, except when he was inside of me. Then it became a soft exhale, almost like a sigh, or a whine. I loved that too. It didn’t matter how he said my name because I loved his voice.

I focused on the sounds of my home; claws scraping the hardwood floors, a low whine from farther away, coming from deeper inside my house. The occasional yawn and shuffling in the dim lighting. They soothed me, much like Hannibal’s voice did. I kept my eyes shut because they were aching, and all I wanted was to curl up under the covers and sleep. I was so cold, and I was still having difficulties focusing on reality. My mind kept slipping back to the nightmare, and I remember asking Hannibal to help me. I don’t remember what, or how I expressed my need for help. But he understood.

His hands rubbed against my arms, but one of them quickly strayed, first to cup my knee, and then it slowly traveled upwards. My heart picked up the pace, and I turned my head to look at him. At what point had I sat down on my couch? My mind kept cutting in and out, like bad reception, and trying to root myself into reality, I focused on Hannibal’s eyes, the soft curve of his lips as he smiled at me. The firewood crackled and popped in the fireplace when his hand found my cock. His lips were against my neck, his tongue sliding over my clavicle, his hot breath brushing my shoulder. I was panting, pathetically begging for more, when he was still dressed, still composed, still in control of his emotions and his actions. My unclothed body was enough for him, although I found it to be just a body — but then again I didn’t see what he saw, I didn’t smell what he smelled, I didn’t taste what he tasted, so maybe I was wrong and he was right.

The bedsprings moaned as Hannibal threw me on it, his fingers pulling off his shirt, his belt, his trousers — even then he was composed. I stared at the ceiling, my cold chest heaving, my thoughts sticky. I was freezing, even though my house was warm, and I could still hear and smell the fire. I was a mess and still he wanted me and I couldn’t understand it. Was I really that desirable, even when I had grass stuck to my hair? That I realized when I dragged my fingers through my wet curls. Was I really that desirable, even though I was still a bit dazed because of the dream?

Hannibal told me once, that my taste was exquisite — the salt in my sweat, the iron in my blood, the acid in my cum — and that every part of me was valuable. I was to be appreciated, not used and thrown around like people sometimes did with me. But no matter how banged up I was, no matter how cold my skin, no matter how many cuts I had crisscrossing my skin from fishing, Hannibal would always see me as something irreplaceable and immaculate. He would pull me back into reality from my nightmares, and when I woke up screaming, he would calm me down. He would speak to me in German, his thick voice flowing over me like a deep, dark river, and even though I could only understand a word here and there, I loved it.

One, two, three fingers inside of me, and I swear I could have died then and there, and I wouldn’t have complained. I always thought that Hannibal played me like one might play an instrument; strumming my chords, picking at them, tapping at them. Sometimes he made a mistake, and we would stumble, or more like, I would stumble, and he would be there to catch me. When he was between my trembling thighs, his lips around my cock, my head was filled with a static-like feeling, a slight buzzing noise accompanied by a high-pitched ringing. I couldn’t explain it — sometimes I had tried to lure out the sound when I was alone, but I had failed every time. Only Hannibal could make me feel like I was dying and being reborn at the same time.

Those three soft, yet dangerous words everyone aches to hear were never uttered during those long, cold nights — not that there was ever need for such words. No, those words were futile and hollow, void of everything, overused. When he was inside of me, and his body pressed into mine, his lips against mine, I felt like imploding. It wasn’t the pleasure, or the overflow of emotions that was pouring from him to me, no, it was the soft panting, the warm fingers around my cock, the smoothly rolling rhythm of his hips that made me lose my mind. Skin against skin, lips against lips — to me it felt like we were being sewn together by invisible threads and made into one body instead of two.

That night all I could hear was the wet, slick sound of Hannibal sliding in and out in and out, his rapidly beating heart giving rhythm to the act itself, and when pleasure tugged my insides and pulled them towards my chest, I felt like dying — and I wanted to die because death was a kind of release. Different from an orgasm, and a part of me wanted that final release from Hannibal. I wanted him to consume me, so I would become a part of him. It wasn’t enough, that he swallowed my sperm, which would futilely try to impregnate the cells in the lining of his stomach. It wasn’t enough that he sometimes pierced my skin with his teeth and lapped the blood from the wounds.

Like so many nights before, that night Hannibal kept me tethered into reality; his hot, damp breath against my cheek, the final, jagged jerks of his hips, and that familiar, quiet whine. His skin was feverishly hot, it burned my own, as he ran his hands down my sides, his hips rutting and rutting — he wanted to make sure his cum would end up as deep as possible, even though it would eventually come out. I loved how he pressed deep inside me, his forehead against mine, his breath on my face.

“Will.”

There it was. The soft exhale. My name on his tongue. I pulled him closer and kissed him. I wanted to taste my name, I wanted to find the imprint of my name in his mouth, but alas, I didn't feel anything but the smoothness of his tongue. At that moment the thought that another human’s tongue had probably been in his mouth several times — not raw, but perhaps medium — made me crave more of his tongue in my mouth as it would somehow bring me closer to him. Because taste was everything to Hannibal. I wanted to taste him, I wanted to taste like him, I wished that we could swap tongues, so I would know, even if for a fleeting moment, what it was like to be Doctor Hannibal Lecter.

A buzzing filled my head, when his mouth was on my cock, his tongue drawing abstract designs — or, maybe they were abstract only to me — and I knew just how corny it was, but I uttered his name. I threw it carelessly into the air, hoping he’d catch it. And he did.

He replied with a soft, “Will”, just before his tongue slid along my cock, and then his hot, wet mouth was enveloping it again.

“Hannibal,” I said. His name was my mantra, something that I repeated out loud, even when I was alone. Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal, until I came with a gasp. No matter how many times I said it, it never lost its meaning. Every other word did, but not his name.

I was an instrument to him, and when his fingers were inside me again and his mouth was on my cock, it was like I was falling through the mattress, through the hardwood floor, through the foundations of my house, down down down, until I hit groundwater. When I came, like all the times before, the air was knocked out of my lungs, and Hannibal kept sucking and sucking until he’d milked every last drop. He never wanted any to go to waste, and sometimes, like that night, he climbed over me and I opened my mouth eagerly. I received my own cum with my tongue, and I swallowed it, and I cherished it like it was an expensive gift one might get from a lover — which it technically was, I guess. I loved it when he shared it with me, keeping the rest for himself, his slick tongue brushing against his lips.

“Ein Körper doch zwei Namen,” Hannibal murmured into my ear. One body, yet two names.

I always thought I was built into his heart. Otherwise, he would’ve eaten me, like he’d done with so many people before me. During those nights we melted into one being and I knew we became so much more than just lovers. We were two souls in one heart.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have time, please leave a kudos, or a comment.  
> And be sure to check out thatwasamazing's fics! She's an amazing writer. <3
> 
> \- Toivo


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